


here i stand and face the rain

by owilde



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And Hope I Guess, Dealing With Guilt, Drinking, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Avengers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 19:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13197060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: Clint wakes up to the uncomfortable feeling that somehow, in some way, all this is his fault in the end.





	here i stand and face the rain

**Author's Note:**

> i sort of really love these two, and, well. late night musings, what's better than that.

Clint wakes up to the sound of dying screams.

The ironic thing is he never got to hear them, not actually. He wasn’t around long enough to get the audio on those final moments, didn’t stay to see the repercussions of what he – what _they_ were doing, _are_ doing, will do. With SHIELD, he did his duties and he got out, enjoyed a drink, wrote a report, and then patted himself on the back for a job well done.

Not anymore. Not after New York.

He wakes up to his too soft bed with a hot blanket weighing down on him. Every part of his body hurts, whether from defending himself or bloodying his hands, his bow stringed, and his mind… his mind is the worst of all. It aches for security which Clint can’t guarantee, not after everything that happened. If one person has the capability to get into his head, to control him like a puppet, what’s to stop someone else? He can’t have security. It used to be a comfort, a reminded of his mortality. Now it scares him.

He wakes up, and the screams don’t stop right away.

People are still being crushed under rubble. People are still being caught up in the crossfire. Still dying, in masses, because of _them_. Because of Clint.

Clint rolls to his side, sits up, lets the cold of the floor seep into his skin. The wood creaks; another security measure he’d insisted upon, but which seems silly now.

The liquor cabin – because they have one, these days – is empty save for one bottle of Shackleton. Clint eyes it for a while before grabbing it, foregoing a glass. His heart is drumming uncomfortably in his chest, a tempo he’s not yet used to. Maybe he never will. Clint sits down by the kitchen table and closes his eyes, trying to do those breathing exercises the counselor told him about, but it’s not doing shit.

Deep breath in, hold it for five seconds, breathe out. Rinse, repeat.

His eyes flicker open as the corner of his mouth twitches in some odd form of amusement. It’s stupid, all these attempts at feeling better, as if there’s a solution for how to fix this fucking mess he’s created for himself. There’s not. There’s nothing that can mend this.

He’s a little less than a quarter of his way through the bottle when he hears the bedroom floor creak. Clint’s body tenses up in spite of himself, fingers curling around the neck of the bottle, clawing for a weapon.

It’s Phil. Of course, it is.

Clint deflates with a sigh. His throat, despite the whiskey, feels dry and coarse. The screaming has stopped, for now, but then... it never stops. It never stops.

“It’s three o’clock,” Phil says softly. He sits opposite to Clint, fingers crossed on the table. He’s not looking at him, but instead out the window at what Clint knows to be a brick wall. “But I suppose you know that, yes?”

Clint frowns at the bottle. “Did I wake you up? My bad. I guess a guilty conscience isn’t enough for some people.”

“Clint,” Phil says quietly. “Don’t.”

“Don’t _what_?” Clint snaps, lifting his eyes to look at Phil. His fingers tighten around the bottle again. “Does it never bother you? This shit that we do, that we’re made to do – that _you_ make people do? There’s blood on your hands, innocent blood, civilian blood. Does that count for nothing?”

Phil doesn’t answer him, not right away. Clint can never tell when he’s thinking and when he’s simply not going to give an answer because there isn’t one. One thing Phil is not is a coward – if there is an answer, he’ll tell it. At least to Clint. He made a promise.

“It does,” Phil eventually says. He looks at Clint with heavy eyes and heavier shoulders, weariness dragging him down. “It does, Clint, trust me. Just because it doesn’t keep me up at night doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. But sometimes…” He hesitates, for a brief second. “Sometimes, it’s better to not think about it in order to achieve the optimal end result.”

“And what’s that?” Clint asks. He takes another swig. It burns.

“The protection of this world.” Phil’s gaze drops to the table. “Lives are lost on the way, yes. But in the end, we’re still here. You and me, and a majority of the planet. Is that not better?”

Clint has thought about this. He’s tried to weigh them against each other – momentary heroism versus utilitarianism. Which is better, on the long run? One gives him the satisfaction of _saving_ someone, making a difference in the moment, being – as they say – a hero. The other is less noticeable. No one will come to him and tell him what a great job he did because fifty years from now, everything’s better. It doesn’t work like that.

And he still doesn’t know the answer.

“I don’t know,” he tells Phil in honesty. “I really don’t. But it doesn’t stop any of this.”

“No,” Phil agrees, “it doesn’t.”

Cars pass by outside.

Clint puts the cork back on the bottle and pushes it away. His head’s beginning to feel dizzy, and it reminds him too much of Loki, of everything that happened. “I can’t fucking escape this. There’s no running away from the amount of collateral damage we do, Phil. I’ve killed bad guys for SHIELD, for you, and I haven’t looked back on it, ever, because the lie that I tell myself is that they deserve it. Maybe some of them do, I don’t know. But those people trying to live their lives out there? Those people coming back from the movies, from the grocery store, those people celebrating birthdays and going on dates – did they deserve it? Or is it just that I killed them on my way to shoot another goddamn bad guy?” He fixes Phil a look. “Is it my fault?”

Phil sighs. “I suppose it is,” he says, “to an extent, at least. Not murder, not like what we used to do. But perhaps just as bad.”

“Does that mean you’re guilty, too?”

“Yes.” Phil doesn’t hesitate. “Of course I am. Maybe more so than you. I’m the one placing responsibility on you, all of you, to do what we deem best. Sometimes what we deem best is not so. Maybe someone should start keeping us in check.”

“Are you propositioning me?” Clint asks dryly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m a little pressed on time.”

“Well.” Phil smiles, a very small smile. “Not you, necessarily. Someone to watch the ones who watch the Avengers. Who would that then be, I don’t have the answers. For once.”

“What has this world come to? Phil Coulson doesn’t know something?”

“You think you’re so funny.”

“I know I am.”

Phil gives him a fond look. The tightness in Clint’s chest eases, if only a little bit, if only for a little while. For a second, he can believe in the lie that the two of them have normal lives and normal jobs, that they don’t carry the weight of their guilt everywhere they go, that it’s alright.

But the second always ends.

“Come back to bed,” Phil says. It’s not a question. “There’s still a few hours.”

“I think sleep is not something I’ll get to have tonight,” Clint admits. “But we can try.”

“We can always try,” Phil shrugs. “That’s what our lives are based around. Trying.”

Clint supposes he’s right. They try to save everyone. They try to stop the bad guys. They try and they fail and they get up again. Rise, rinse, repeat.

The bed is still too soft, too warm. Phil’s breathing is too even, Clint’s too shallow. He sinks into the mattress and closes his eyes. He’s never been afraid of the dark, but he thinks he might be starting to.

This time, the screaming never comes.


End file.
